You Don't
by eloquentelegance
Summary: Some lessons can only be learned the hard way. (Inspired by the Davie strip)


"England?" He asks, worrying at his bottom lip, hands fisted around the hem of his shirt.

"Yes, love?" You're at your study, penning a letter to your boss about the state of the colonies. He's getting bigger, you think. And it is quite strange. Lord knows you didn't grow up half so fast or half as broad. But your colony, little Alfred as you've taken to calling him, well he's got the makings of a wide shouldered young man. You can see it already, in the slopes of his neck and the breadth of his chest. In a couple of centuries give or take, you think. Oh but he's already reached your knee, hasn't he? Wasn't he smaller before? You were so sure. Why, you'd think he was human.

But he isn't.

And he knows. More keenly than before, you are sure of it. Poor dear.

"England," He repeats, and he's stalling and that's different. Your Alfred, and yes, yours. Damn whatever that French wanker thinks. He likes you best, he does. And you know him better than anyone, well enough to know your boy doesn't stall, doesn't hesistate. He charges on ahead like there's nothing between him and the horizon. Not today, it would seem.

He takes a breath, then another, opening his mouth and letting it hang, before he confounds it all. His lips twist down, barking out his question. "Why won't Davie wake up?"

His eyes are wide and pleading like somehow you can fix this, like you patched his breeches or thumbed away his scrapes. You blink.

"Well, it's because he's dead."

Now, he blinks. You're waiting for tears, for tantrums, but all you get is his tilted head. "Oh."

Oh, he says, like he just heard it will rain tomorrow or that it was the first of September, small, neglible facts.

But then he asks, "What's dead?"

Your brows rise till your forehead disappears into folds and creases. You clear your throat, spluttering into your closed hand. "Dead, you ask? How can you not know what dead is? Surely, you know about it. When humans get very old or if they encounter a spot of trouble, they, well, they stop."

"Stop what?"

"Everything, really. They don't breathe anymore or move. It's like, well it's like when they're asleep but they won't wake up anymore. They're just a lump of cold flesh and bone. You've seen it, right? Surely, you have."

He nods solemnly. And you think, well of course he has. His colony has seen a fair bit of death what with all the brave new world and all its uncivilized lands. Many a colonist has died from one thing or another. Yes, yes, Alfred knows. Not the proper term for it of course, he still hasn't settled on a language yet. Bloody troublesome that is, when Alfred starts speaking French in one sentence and then ends it in Dutch.

But he knows the concept, as all nations are intimately, instinctively aware of their old and true friend in Death.

"Can they stop being dead?" He asks, gaze lowered and away.

You purse your lips, patting his head. "I'm afraid not."

There's squirming, and his whole expression just collapses. "But I finally got the flower. He wanted it, you know. It was very important. It came from his home. And he looked so sad. I just wanted to make him happy. I wanted to give him the flower, England. That's all."

"Oh, love." You swallow, kneeling down to his level, resting your hands on his shoulders.

"Why did he die, England?" He hiccups, wheezing out between great, heaving sobs. His small body shakes with the force of his wailings. "Why did he die?"

"That's how it is. Humans live and die and there's just no stopping it. Many have tried. But Death comes for everyone in the end. It is nature."

"'Snot fair! Not fair! Why couldn't he wait? I would've gotten him the flowers. I did get the flowers. Why? Why didn't he stay longer?"

You wrap your arms around your boy, tucking his head under your chin, and you hold him. Just like that, with you on your knees, and him on his feet, crying into the hollow of your throat. You squeeze him tight like you can keep him together, like he won't fall apart this way - piece by piece from the inside out. If you hold him closer, you think rather stupidly, if you press him against the pulse of your veins, then all the hurt and harm will magically go away. But it doesn't.

And then all you have is a very sad boy.

He cries for a long time. Your knees ache. Your arms are tired. Still, you dare not let go. You hold him even when he's cried himself out, tired and hoarse, sniffling into your collarbone.

"I miss him, England." He whispers. "How do I stop missing him?"

You close your eyes, and you think of Bessy, you think of Will, of the baker down the street and the scullery maid in the kitchen.

"You don't."


End file.
